White Lies
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: A Decepticon goes in for a job interview, and nobody is telling the truth. But who doesn't tell a few white lies now and then?
1. Chapter 1

_A Decepticon goes in for a job interview, and nobody is telling the truth. But who doesn't tell a few white lies now and then?_

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**Title: **White Lies

**Warning: **Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn't win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **More Than Meets The Eye AU

**Characters: **Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

**Motivation (Prompt): **There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks commissioned me to write the first part, just to see what happened.

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**Pt. 1: Desperate times call for desperate measures. **

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"Well, spin my tires and call me a Praxian. If it ain't Tarn." That notoriously cheerful, sinister smile flashed, charismatic and charming as only a born killer's could be, and Tarn's whole world froze. Targeting systems spun up on automatic. "You wanna explain why the head of the Decepticon Justice Division's standing in front of me?" Jazz asked.

Fast on the heels of murderous hate ran suppression programming. Kaon had chipped the whole unit, painstakingly installing the software in each of them. The chips burnt out under too much stress, but the point was to disrupt their instinctive violent reaction long enough for them to regain control and back off. Burning out would hopefully happen after they started to suppress their tempers and weapons systems on their own. Calming down enough to avoid confrontation had to become second nature - again. As it had been, back before the war. As it had to be now that the war was over.

Tarn fought to unclench his fists and relax his treads. Jazz, like him, could make a threat out of the most congenial of statements, but the Autobot was the one who could back those threats up. Not him. Not anymore. Vent in, vent out, and _submit_. He might be the larger mech here, but he wouldn't bet on Jazz being disarmed, and the law would certainly slam full-force on Tarn's head even if he won the fight. He couldn't afford to draw attention like that. His _unit_ couldn't afford that attention.

He forced himself to step forward with his employment application extended, voice low instead of a purred threat. "I'm not the head of the D.J.D.," he said, omitting the _'…anymore'_ they both knew belonged at the end of the statement. Keeping the bitterness out of his voice almost hurt. Humility tasted worse than the dreg-swill that was all Tesarus and Helex's combined wages could afford to buy to fuel the unit. "I'm just a mech looking for work. I was told there might be a job here for me." Specifically for him, although Tarn cursed Soundwave's round-about method of informing him of it as he faced the consequences of following the slippery communication mech's lead without doing his own research.

Not that he really had the time or resources for that anymore. Wasn't that the point of coming down to this area, anyway? This area was riding the edge of squalor: sub-level eight in the down-east quadrant of Iacon, just fashionably close enough to the new Senate's Pavilion to not count as a slum. Maccadam's Old Oil House was within driving distance, which made sense. This club was supposed to be Blurr's new venture, the more nightclub side of the popular low-key bar, and Tarn was desperate enough to seek work even here. He'd taken one look at the neon travesty calling itself a club and known exactly what it was, no matter what the advertisements and the bright sign claimed, and yet he'd still knocked on the door.

And found himself facing one of the few mechs in either faction who could recognize him despite the changes made to his face and frame, who knew exactly who and what he'd been. The shorter mech leaned in the doorway and didn't move. Jazz just stood there waiting, wearing a cocky smile and serious blue visor alert behind the casual façade.

Tarn waited under that scrutiny, because he really didn't have anywhere else to go. He needed this job. On this post-war Cybertron, economic depression wasn't what was keeping him from finding work. Employment was easy enough to find if a mech had been on the winning side.

Long story short, the Decepticons hadn't won.

Short story slightly longer, Optimus Prime had utilized loyalty and resources better than Megatron had. The Battle of Sherma Bridge happened. The first five cities fell to the Decepticons. Then things went rapidly downhill as Shockwave and Overlord turned traitor, perhaps one because of the other, but nobody would ever know. They'd died or had been quietly disposed of before any questions could be asked, although how one disposed of a Phase Sixer quietly was a mystery. A somewhat frightening one, at that. Through massive bribes and fear, Black Shadow followed in Overlord's traitorous footsteps, and then the Autobots had their own Phase Sixer willing to decimate armies.

Thing had already been heading downward for the Decepticons before that, but losing one of the top officers and _two_ Phase Sixers to the Autobots snapped the support beams. People started getting reckless. Too many chances on the battlefield created casualties or capture. Starscream took a shot to the back by his own trine, although Thundercracker escaped and went missing, presumably off-planet or dead. Far too many of the officers either followed his example - or ended up following Starscream's.

Megatron met Optimus Prime in battle one last time, and only one could stand. One had to fall.

It wasn't the Prime.

Soundwave, watching the chaos befalling the rest of the faction, had apparently decided the odds were against him. He quietly disappeared, taking his complex communication network, stabilizing influence, and vast database of information into hiding. That didn't end the war, but it stopped the end from dragging on and on. Without him holding the Decepticons together behind the scenes, the remains of the Senate brought about the end of the civil war before anyone else among the Decepticons could amass enough power to take leadership.

Whole outposts had begun surrendering. Darkmount, last stronghold of the faction, held out the siege six months before finally opening her gates to the Prime's negotiator. The terms of surrender were harsh but fair enough considering the fact that everyone knew the alternative was outright execution.

That had been the end of the war story.

Therein began the actual tale, because life didn't stop after the war did. The tattered remnants of the Senate weren't inclined to be merciful, nor were the neutrals who hadn't taken sides. They still outnumbered Autobots and Decepticons alike, but at least the Autobots were considered heroes.

Optimus Prime fought and succeeded in keeping the bedraggled Decepticon ranks from permanent incarceration or sentences of manual labor. As hard as he fought, however, he couldn't prevent the Branding Law from passing. He believed in equality, but most of Cybertron had been too ravaged by war to extend a helping hand to the faction they blamed for destroying cities and people alike.

Truth be told, the Autobot ranks put a lot of pressure on him to let the law pass. The Autobots kept their emblems as signs of pride and heroism, a way to remember those who had died to keep Cybertron free from Megatron's tyranny. The Decepticon emblem now stood for the losing side, a sign of shame. By the Branding Laws rules, the former freedom fighters, revolutionaries, or whatever they labeled of themselves were not allowed to _remove_ the sign of their wartime loyalties. The Autobot registry was publicly posted as a hero's rolecall. In contrast, the Decepticon registry was a public list of criminals, compiled from the surrendered ranks and soldiers brought in by bounty hunters, starvation, or despair.

It made getting a job after the war difficult. Even if an employer were willing to overlook a purple brand, there was the matter of altmodes and armament.

The Functionalist Party wasn't completely in power with the Senate now more of an advising body to the Prime. Tarn considered that a minor triumph amidst total defeat. Job mobility was marginally easier than it had been before the war, but shapeism lingered. Those who had adapted their altmodes to war usually didn't have the funds to buy another reformating. The lower classes that had started the war without money hadn't gotten any richer while fighting. They'd spent all their money on upgrades, and on post-war Cybertron, those who couldn't buy a downgrade found themselves unable to apply for anything but the most menial of jobs. Nobody wanted to hire soldiers.

Doubly not if the soldier wore a purple badge.

Even if a Decepticon managed to find a job, holding on to that job didn't necessarily follow. The Constructicons, as highly talented as they were now highly publicized, had been hounded out of a series of construction projects by harassment from Autobots and vengeful neutrals. The Constructicons themselves kept their heads down and tolerated the abuse, but the building contractors who'd hired them couldn't handle the negative press. The Office of the Prime had finally intervened, likely at a petition from the Constructicons after the lost legal battle over retaining the architectural designs from their last job. The combiner now worked directly for the government. Mechs still protested outside of their worksites.

Most of the Decepticons didn't have the option of petitioning for government intervention. The former Decepticon Justice Division certainly didn't. They were lucky to have evaded war crime trials, honestly, and that because of timing alone. The D.J.D. had only recently emerged from the shadows as Megatron's hidden hand of internal justice, and the word hadn't spread far yet because the official ceremony had been postponed, then canceled when Megatron fell. Some Decepticons knew, but most Autobots and neutrals didn't care about Decepticons who'd committed atrocities upon other Decepticons.

As for those Decepticons who knew about the D.J.D., well, the unit had taken what steps they could.

Tarn and the other four mechs in his unit had been renamed after the first five cities only weeks before Megatron's death. He counted his unit extremely fortunate for that. Up until then, the whispers about Megatron's secret police had featured faceless mechs without names. Word had begun to spread, but the Decepticon ranks in general hadn't made the connection between the new 'Decepticon Justice Division' and the ugly rumors about a List and what happened to those on it. Not yet.

Megatron had renamed his five most loyal followers but hadn't lived long enough to formally announce what the D.J.D. was. The official ceremony had never happened, and they'd been guiltily glad for that after Darkmount's surrender. As tempting as it'd been to fight to the death for their beliefs, they were practical mechs. Lord Megatron had been defeated. The Cause had dissolved into infighting and chaos. Survival was a humiliating option, but it made sense.

Tarn had registered his defeated unit under their new names. It was the only protection their Lord could grant them on this new Cybertron. Until Megatron had renamed them after the first fallen cities, their names had been acknowledged as fearsome. Other Decepticons would have gone after them or spread the word about what they'd done.

As it was, the unit spent their last credits changing Tesarus' easily-recognizable optics and brow ridges into something just as striking but as far removed from his previous look as possible. Tarn himself prayed that Megatron would forgive him for using the mask crafted for the initiation ceremony. Welding the mask on in front of the troops had been meant to show Tarn's dedication to the Cause. Now it served a less noble purpose: it hid him from those who knew his face.

However, wearing a giant Decepticon emblem as a mask really hadn't done him any favors in this post-war world. Decepticons carried a stigma, one that they couldn't shed because of the Branding Law, but Tarn's emblem was now his face. Yeah, he couldn't keep a job to save his life, much less support his unit. It was a common woe in the government allotment slums of Iacon. Tesarus and Helex had managed to find work at a recycling plant on the edge of the city, and on busy cycles they could handle enough garbage to scrape by. They were drinking dreg-swill and the two titans were always exhausted, but it was better than unemployment.

As Vos, Kaon, and Tarn knew very well. They weren't doing as well as their larger brethren.

It'd been three weeks, two days, and ten hours since Tarn had been fired for _'intimidating other workers.'_ Sounded pretty scary and Decepticon-y, right? Too bad that hadn't been what he'd wanted at all. In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite of what he'd been trying for. He'd accomplished this frightening act simply by standing up too quickly. Because he was kind of big. And he loomed. After years commanding his own unit, he exuded authority, too.

Intimidation wasn't something he had to try to do. It just happened. Trying _not_ to do it took up most of his concentration.

He had the sinking feeling that even if he were small and inherently nicer, he wouldn't have been able to keep the job. After all, it'd been three weeks, five days, and six hours since Kaon had failed his last job evaluation, and Kaon was tall but not necessarily intimidating within his job field. Electricians and communication specialists came with lots of strange electrical mods. However, the reason for his dismissal had cited his missing optics. Because of them, he'd been _'deemed unsuitable for this position; let go with regret.'_

Both of them had swallowed their pride and appealed the decision, in the case of Kaon on the basis of testing above the original job requirements when he'd applied. It wasn't fair that the connection company he'd worked for changed the requirements of his position. But Kaon didn't have any more luck with his appeal than Tarn did.

"It's not just your aggression toward your coworkers," his supervisor had explained, looking nervously at the desk in front of him instead of at Tarn's stark purple mask. "You're just...out of place at a call center, don't you think? You're just not, well." An awkward gesture taking in the cannons that, even as stripped down as Tarn could get them, still lay down his forearm. They were part of his altmode; he couldn't just remove them. Even politely pointed anywhere but at someone, they were so blasted _present_. "It's not the image we like to project."

Tarn had refrained from explaining, yet again, that he hadn't been aggressive, or that call centers like this were known by its customer service representatives over audio communication links, not vidcalls. He'd just nodded silently and left to pack up his cubicle. Yet another job that he'd failed at keeping.

Like Kaon, he had a track record of failures making future job prospects a spiral into drudge labor. Length of employment - pitifully short - as well as reason for employment termination were permanently entered on their public job records, now. The former communication specialist's job history listed dismissal after dismissal, most because of his handicap.

On the other hand, Tarn's job history read like a criminal record. _'Intimidating other workers.'_ I.E., existing with intent to work._ 'Suspected of petty theft.'_ Eh-heh…yeah, that one had an explanation, but not one he'd wanted to give his employer at the time._ 'Promoted threatening atmosphere.' _In other words, polite small-talk with his coworkers hadn't gone over so well._ 'Uncooperative with authority figures.'_ Teach him to try and volunteer a suggestion in person ever again.

Almost everything on the list had been unintentional, if it hadn't been a complete fabrication from his coworkers' imaginations. He couldn't really blame them, although he resented their lack of backstruts. Their fear had been caused by being stuck in close quarters with one of the unconfirmed Decepticon Phase Sixers. He understood that.

Thankfully, the reason for dismissal that he'd actually earned hadn't been followed up by prosecution. He didn't know what he'd have done if it had. Being labeled a suspected thief was bad enough; being arrested for stealing office supplies would have been mortifying. The theft itself wasn't something Tarn was proud of. His entire unit had been out of work that week, however, and selling bits and pieces of office equipment had kept their tanks from draining dry until payday.

He still refused to tell the others where he'd gotten the money from. He didn't want them viewing him in that sort of light. They were his _unit_. He would protect them at the expense of his pride, but he'd strive to preserve whatever sad bits of respect they held toward him.

Hence the reason he was standing out a nightclub that was likely no more than a front for a house of ill-repute, holding out his application to an Autobot who was grinding his pride under one wheel simply by standing there. Soundwave lurked in the shadows of Cybertron, relying on connections and debts owed to stay out of prison. Right now Tarn couldn't figure out if he owed the communication specialist anything for the unsigned message directing him to this place. The message had said Tarn's _'genteel conversational style and interest in current affairs'_ would be beneficial in getting the job.

It was work. He needed it, no denying that fact. Not liking the work available wasn't an excuse for not applying, not for him and definitely not right now.

The (former) D.J.D. was in the process of desperately scraping together the credits to buy Vos' entry into the teaching examination. The scientist had all the pre-existing education for teaching within the Iacon Science Academy, but a professor who couldn't get grants taught for free. Nobody would fund a Decepticon scientist, not anytime soon. Linguistics professors specializing in Primal Vernacular, however, were scarce enough that he could _easily_ pick up classes and extracurricular work.

If, that was, he had the teaching certification to apply for faculty jobs at the Academies. Meaning that he had to take and pass the test. Until then, the best Vos could manage was sporadic tutoring work.

Vos was back at the apartment now, studying and acting as living theft deterrent. None of their neighbors in the government allotment complex could take him on. Helex and Tesarus both worked double shifts today. Kaon was out scrounging the neighborhood two sublevels up for recyclables sell for a few quarter-shanix. If he got very lucky, he'd pick up a temp job fixing someone's vidnetwork reception or home office network while he wandered.

Tarn hadn't told the rest of them where he was heading today. He'd just said that Soundwave might have found him another job. Emphasis on the _'might,'_ so as to avoid getting anyone's hopes up. A lot of employment opportunities hadn't panned out.

He wasn't sure this was a job opportunity so much as a trap.

As neutral as he could force himself, the tank met Jazz's visor. "I was told there was a job waiting for me here," he repeated when Jazz just stood there.

He hadn't been told what kind of job. Not...this. But if Vos were to have a chance at the teaching exam, someone had to take one for the team. Helex and Tesarus couldn't take any more shifts without collapsing, and Tarn was already running his tanks practically dry to minimize fuel consumption. He hadn't transformed in _days_. His wrist joints and transformation points had begun aching yesterday, but he couldn't - they couldn't afford to indulge their vices.

He'd never quite sunk this low before the war, but times changed. Except for the overuse of neon, at least the place looked clean. And Blurr hadn't maligned the Maccadam Old Oil House trademark too badly since taking over. Any nightclub spin-off had to have some sort of class. Right?

Jazz pushed off the door frame and swept a look over him, deliberate as a weapons-check. "Yeah. Yeah, seems we got a contact in common." Tarn stiffened, trying not to betray his surprise. A former Autobot officer kept contact with Soundwave?! "I put out a call for a 'Con who could fit in, but I gotta admit you aren't what I expected to turn up."

Shock and unease went down hard, but he swallowed them anyway. Now was not the time to wonder what games Soundwave played. "Ah. Regardless of what you were...led to expect, I'm here now, if you are hiring." He hesitated and picked his words carefully. "What position is open, if I might ask?"

All he could think of was Soundwave's cryptic message. Tarn had educated himself as much as he could before and after joining the Decepticons. He'd adopted a flowery speech pattern he knew sometimes grated on others from lower class backgrounds. In a club like this, well, he couldn't imagine an innocent reason Soundwave would think speaking above his station was beneficial.

That blue visor considered him. "Hosts. We're hiring hosts."

Tarn hated to think what that was a euphemism for. He didn't want to dwell on it. He was here. He needed the job. Mechs had endured worse. It was legal work. It had to pay better than petty theft.

One side of the visor narrowed, as if Jazz were weighing pros and cons. "...y'are here, I suppose. You planning on causing any trouble?"

He shook his head silently.

"Y'think you'd be any good at it?"

What kind of question was that? Honestly, how hard could it be? Wait, no, he didn't want to think about that, either. "It would help if I knew the job requirements," Tarn said quietly, but he couldn't meet the Autobot's level gaze. Did they really have to talk about this out on the street? He thought that keeping this private was kind of the point of having a club for it.

Jazz gave him one more assessing look that said the Autobot knew what exactly Tarn had been, what exactly he was still capable of, and what exactly that was worth in the wake of defeat. "Alright. Come in and talk to th' boss." He flashed a smile when Tarn blinked at him in dull surprise. "I'm not in charge of hiring. I'm just filtering out the bad cases before they get to the bar. It's up to Swerve t' decide if you'll bring the customers in or not."

Oh, scrap, this hadn't even been the job interview? Who was Swerve? Frag, he didn't have a single file on any Autobot named Swerve! Was he Blurr's best friend, club manager, or just a bartender? Was he part owner? Full owner? That would explain the name of the club; he'd thought _Off Track_ referred to Blurr's racing fame, but apparently it was a play on whatever Swerve was famous for. Tarn wasn't sure what that was, but it had to be somewhat important. The mech was obviously in charge of hiring club hosts, it nothing else.

A wash of anxiety flooded down Tarn's backstruts. Suddenly, moving this into the privacy of the club before opening hours seemed like a very bad idea.

But it was this or unemployment.

Tarn braced himself for the worst and followed Jazz inside.

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**_[ A/N:_**_ First part commissioned by TwistyRocks! Thank you!__**]**_


	2. Pt 2

**Title: **White Lies

**Warning: **Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn't win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **More Than Meets The Eye AU

**Characters: **Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

**Motivation (Prompt): **There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks commissioned me to write the first two parts, just to see what happened.

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**Pt. 2: Dealing with the Devil. **

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Ugh, the neon got worse inside. Tarn dimmed his optics in self-defense, but fortunately the concentration of bright lights stopped at the entryway. Once past that, the glaring neon swirled mostly around a bar at one end of the room and a stage at the other end. A cleared area in front of the stage likely held dancers during open hours, but the rest of the club had an oddly intimate aura to it.

The room between bar and stage stretched out into shadowy cubbies full of tables and low, comfortable couches. The contrast made the tacky lighting stylish in a strange reversal of expectations. Tarn found himself giving an approving nod. The floor plan took advantage of the spacious club interior. Someone had given thought to different frametypes: the chair height varied, as did the tables. The chairs were neatly pushed in and there was plenty of room between tables for people to move about without interrupting conversations by shoving chairs aside. Thick pillar supports helped keep the privacy by dividing the room up.

The lighting and seating delineated the club into sections: public party and intimacy. Unlike many clubs that had tried for that atmosphere, this place succeeded. That impressed him.

Running a critical optic over the place as he went, Tarn followed Jazz toward the bar with every appearance of calm neutrality. The evaluation came up surprisingly favorable. He'd expected a sleazy dive masquerading as a class act, but everything looked clean. Serviceable. There was a strong, smoky tint to the air as if something had been burnt here, but it wasn't overpowering. He couldn't pinpoint what it was. Leftovers from a past stage show, perhaps, but it didn't do more than register on his chemical receptors before his air filters cleared it away.

First impression aside, the small details added up to the kind of place planned out to the smallest detail. That made the difference between sitting down for a quick drink or settling down for the full show. Management had a quality over quantity mindset.

Tesarus would have had trouble, but Tarn threaded the maze of tables without dodging too many chairs. His treads tightened as he did. A morose glumness settled over him. Despite the gaudy neon, this was the kind of club he'd take Kaon to if the stage shows were any good. A room lay-out the blind mech could easily memorize, discrete seating areas off the main area, and he could tell from the ceiling shape that the acoustics around the stage were excellent. Music would broadcast out, but conversation from the tables wouldn't be heard halfway across the club. That was a tricky piece of sound management.

However, a staircase beside the bar led upward, and a neon blue sign next to it blared an advertisement for _'Private Rooms Available!'_ What set Off Track apart from Maccadam's Old Oil House wasn't just the location or the different interior. The club revolved around its entertainment, and that didn't mean the stage shows. Tarn really didn't want to think about what those private rooms upstairs were rented out for. His systems were upset enough as it was.

Because while part of him studied the building and seating arrangements, the rest of him braced for applying as...decor. For applying to work as one of the fixtures that drew mechs in. This place seemed like a fairly interesting nightclub until one thought about what a 'host club' was. The stage shows might be a draw, but the tactful screening in the tables and couches in the dim cubbies allowed for enough privacy for _other_ attractions. Private party entertainment, as it were.

He didn't want to work here.

Yes, well, what Tarn wanted had no effect on reality. He wanted Lord Megatron alive and whole, the Senate overthrown, and life on Cybertron reformed by the Decepticon Cause. He wanted his place and purpose back, but that just wasn't going to happen.

Kaon's meticulously installed suppression programming hissed static below the surface of his thoughts as Tarn's engine's threatened to turn over. The tank reset his optics, cycled a long vent, and calmed himself. The smoky scent again pinged him as odd, and he concentrated fiercely on it for the distraction. Anger served no purpose. The war was over. The Decepticons were defeated.

Vos needed to take the teaching exam, and the rest of his unit needed fuel. Tarn _would_ work here, and he'd slagging well be _grateful_ that Soundwave had found him the job. If he could work at a call center doing customer service through audio calls, then he could do the work of waitstaff and - whatever else the position demanded. At least shareware in a place like this had to earn decent wages.

Ahead of him, Jazz's doors perked up slightly at the brief rev of his engine. "Second thoughts?" the Autobot asked.

The light tone didn't fool him. Tarn cycled air once more before trusting his vocalizer. "Not at all. It seems to be a nice place," he commented, keeping his voice conversational. He could do this. "Has it been open long?"

Jazz tossed a sharp smile back at him. "A couple months. It's why we're hiring, y'know? Finally busy enough to need more hosts workin'."

The sick clutch in his circuits squeezed tighter. The employee turnover in a place like this was very high, or else the current employees had reached the end of their endurance. The best-case scenario Tarn's mind could scrape up was one where management encouraged quality over quantity in services as well as seating. Maybe the employees simply didn't have time to accommodate more customers without skimping on the, ah, full experience.

There were times he was astoundingly glad he wore a mask, now. He kept his voice level despite his expression. It hurt a bit to force the words out. "That's good."

"For you? Sure is." The former Head of SpecOps didn't laugh, but he didn't need to. Tarn already knew how fortunate he was, how badly he needed this job, and how much that amused Jazz. The Autobot had to be gloating over having one of Megatron's right-hand mechs humbly asking for employment. Were he in Jazz's place, he wouldn't have bothered hiding how delicious the power tasted.

Sadly, Tarn didn't find swallowing his pride very difficult anymore. The end of the war had been brutal on the surviving Decepticons, and he'd endured some truly terrible job interviews already. Managers who used their positions to take their frustrations from the war out on him weren't new. So far, they'd been too afraid to do more than slap penalties on his job record and fire him, but he'd endured worse before the war. He'd had jobs run by cruel opportunists who'd hung the threat of unemployment over their workers to extort longer hours and less pay. Because what could the workers do? Protest the treatment or stand up to a manager in an attempt at demanding basic rights, and oh look, somebody less subversive was right there eager to fill the brand new job vacancy.

Megatron's message of revolution and change had resounded so strongly with the oppressed masses because they _were_ oppressed. And no matter what Optimus Prime's speeches promised, Tarn wasn't seeing any of the benefits of the Senate's new laws trickling down to where the Decepticons now occupied the lowest bracket in the labor force. The only option they had was to put their heads down and get used to defeat.

Gradually, job by job, the pre-war patience of a powerless menial worker was creeping back into his life. The spark-crushing everyday servitude didn't feel any better than it had the first time, but attempting to change the corrupt system had sunk him even lower than where he'd started. Resignation got a mech further in this life than futile anger.

As long as Jazz kept the mockery covert, Tarn would ignore the humiliation of working under a former enemy. Soundwave had kept contact with this mech. Jazz was as close to an ally as Tarn had, going into this interview.

Jazz bounced up to the bar ahead of him, then did a skip-hop that landed his aft on the bar with the ease of long familiarity. The flashy flip of one leg crossing over the other seemed to happen on automatic, ankle-tire running down the opposite lower leg in a tantalizing show. The sleek curve of his hood reflected blue neon as he leaned back on his hands. If Tarn hadn't been tense and anxious, he might have paused to stare. Autobot or not, Jazz was a _fine_ specimen of a groundframe.

A casual helm toss back let Jazz call behind the bar. "Hey, Swerve! Boss, got time for an interview?"

"Whoa, really? Got a bite on that ad already? Wow!"

Assumptions would trip Tarn up yet. The voice came from lower than he'd been looking. His optics snapped downward right as a tray of glasses heaved up onto the bar from knee-height, and the tank belatedly noticed the mech digging in the cabinets under the counter. Oh. This unknown owner/manager/Swerve person was a minibot.

It wasn't that Tarn had a problem with the _idea_ of taking orders from a smaller mech. A lot of mechs were smaller than him, including every manager from his last four jobs. It simply struck him as a bit off. In the Decepticons, merit had had its place, but the fighters had prospered. Officers had tended to be large and intimidating. He'd have felt equally discomfited about taking orders from Kaon or Vos.

Alright, not quite as much. This situation had a level of awkward to it that no military unit would have ever had.

Especially when Swerve straightened up and glanced over the bar, saw him, and froze. Either the size or mask had shocked the minibot, but Tarn spotted the Autobot insignia at the same time. He had to control an internal wince before it escaped. Just his luck.

Right, running damage control even before introducing himself. This did not bode well. "I apologize for showing up without contacting you ahead of time. It seems a mutual acquaintance of ours," he cast a glance pointedly at Jazz, "felt I'd be ideal for the job. He must not have contacted you directly before referring me here, so I'm sorry if my timing has inconvenienced you."

Impeccable politeness could be an offensive weapon if the initial volley hit the mark. It all depended on aim and timing.

Tarn's smile curved behind his mask as Swerve jolted under a direct hit to formal manners. "No, no! It's okay, I wasn't doing anything important, and anyway, I was hoping somebody would respond soon, so this is fine. It's just fine! Don't apologize!" Broad hands hurriedly pushed the tray of glasses aside, clearing the bar because it'd be rude to conduct an interview while not appearing to pay attention to the potential employee, and they were all being polite, so polite. "It's great that you're here now, really! Just great. We'll have time to talk before the club opens, and yeah. Yeah."

The Autobot was already on the defensive. Time to gracefully back off before he seemed aggressive instead of polite.

Tarn bowed his head in deference to Swerve's insistence that they talk. "Thank you for your time. Although I am beginning to think my acquaintance failed to consider that the establishment might not be geared toward mechs like myself," he said, giving the words an apologetic cast as if blaming himself for the minibot's reaction to seeing a Decepticon in his club.

He kept his voice between quiet and a hearty boom. Too much volume combined with his size was menacing; too little came off as sinister. Also, too far either way sounded like he was trying too hard to seem not a threat or was desperately friendly. Sounding like a 'normal' mech took more effort than most realized.

The balancing act worked, however. Swerve's flustered scrambling relaxed a tad, or enough to calm the panicky babble of excuses he'd been spouting. "Uh, right. No, wait, that's, um, great! It's great." A quick glance at Jazz failed to be a subtle plea for help. The pale hue of his visor made it obvious that Swerve didn't have a clue where to start. "I always wanted to make a Decepticon friend after the war ended, so this's great. Just gre - good. It's good." Since no help was forthcoming from Jazz, the minibot regrouped and smiled so widely Tarn's face hurt seeing it. "Everybody gets a chance to recycle all that faction stuff into something new, that's what I say. Right? New beginnings!"

Tarn's vents narrowed, but he didn't otherwise show his immediate wariness. So he was expected to be Swerve's friend as well an employee? That didn't inspire any joy in him. He preferred his professional relationships to be exactly that: professional.

Ah, frag. Maybe the 'friendship' Swerve wanted _was_ professional.

He hated this scrap so much.

Regretting every step he'd made leading to this bar, Tarn hid his clenched fists behind his back and gave a shallow nod. "Right."

It was a weak agreement, but thankfully, Swerve didn't seem to need input once he'd gotten started talking. "Right! And that's why I put out the advertisement for a 'Con. War's over, and I figure I can do my part to get over dividing everyone up. I can't be the only one who wants to actually sit down and talk to somebody like you, y'know? War's over, time to move on! You'll be a," he hesitated, that highly expressive face showcasing doubt for half a second before cheer bulldozed it. Swerve beamed and hurried on, "A novelty! A draw, like a technimal at the zoo only, well, not. No no, not like that at all, but something unique, anyway. Kind of a commercial thing in and of itself, yeah?"

Tarn just stood there, dumbfounded, as the minibot threw his hands up as if picturing some sort of poster. "Big guy like you might scare some folks," hello understatement, "but think of it as a chance to sit down with somebody who could of killed us!" Even Jazz tilted his head to give Swerve a baffled look at that, but the mech couldn't be repressed. It was like once his mouth had gotten started, he literally couldn't shut it. "Tame murderer of the club! It's like a thrill ride for danger-seekers, except sitting down at a table." He put his thumbs and forefingers and squinted through them at the purple Decepticon insignia mask. "Drinks with a killer!"

Tarn's mouth worked behind his mask, but he couldn't find words. If politeness could be weaponized against individuals, this level of tactlessness could stun a battalion.

Jazz couldn't even manage a straight face. Hiding a giant smile in his hands, he bent over and laughed silently at the Decepticon's utterly befuddled disbelief. His doors bobbed in mirth, but he scraped up some of the tact lying about on the floor. "Swerve - boss, that's not the best plan, I think. Not the kinda image we wanna project here, yeah? We're more about relaxin' and having a good time than bein' afraid for life an' limb."

Swerve deflated. "We could make it work…"

Tarn found his voice at last. "That's not the kind of image **I** want to carry," he said, rough and a touch uneven. He _was_ a killer, but the point of masking his face and taking a different name was to _erase_ who he'd been. His unit couldn't afford publicity! "I sincerely doubt many people would find the idea of talking to a threat to be appealing, in any case. My skills as a conversationalist would be a far better advertisement than anything so…" He struggled to find a way to phrase it. Crass? Exploitative? Humiliating?

"War-like?" Jazz asked dryly, gaze steady on Tarn's mask. He knew what the former leader of the D.J.D. was thinking. A mech desperate for a job would play whatever part management gave him, but rubbing defeat in the Decepticon's face by making it a selling point was pitiless as well as tactless.

The saboteur-turned-host turned a conciliatory smile on his boss. "What he said, Swerve. War's over, and it's kinda tasteless remindin' everyone of the fighting. We'd have enough of that with **that** on the floor if y' ask me." He nodded at Tarn's mask, and the Decepticon inclined his head in return. It was a valid point.

The minibot had deflated entirely, elbows on the bar and lips pressed together unhappily, but he offered a shrug. "It was idea, what can I say. You got to admit that you're going to be a tough sell." He waved at the tank, visor squinching up as his mouth pulled to the side in a half-smile. "No offense or anything, but not everybody's looking to make friends with a 'Con. Customers come in to have fun. None of the other hosts are as big as you, and you got that mask, and while I'm sure your personality's wonderful, it's the first impression you've got to nail in this biz."

Tarn honestly wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or not by that. Surely he wasn't so ugly that it'd turn customers off from buying his services? The mask would likely unnerve many Autobots, but he'd always felt his body, at the very least, was quite handsome. The promise of submission available upon purchase seemed like it'd make him _more_ desirable, when he thought about it. Not that he wanted to think about it, but too late now.

Somewhat disturbed, he said, "I would think my appearance would make me more appealing to some." Shame heated his tubes the second he said it out loud.

That earned him a bark of laughter, and Jazz shook his head. "Kinky as frag, but you're pro'bly right on that." That blue visor eyed him knowingly. It wouldn't surprise Tarn if the SpecOps mech could somehow see the flush of embarrassment spreading across his systems. "Might work. You'd be somethin' different than what we've got on offer right now, that's for sure." He swept a look over the Decepticon from treads to feet. "Still…"

Primus, what had Tarn's life come to that he had to persuade these two that he was slagging _pretty_ enough to work in this club. Liquid heat drenched his internal parts in mortification as he softened his stance from the military-correct parade rest he'd unconsciously assumed. Deliberately displaying his best features was something he'd just have to get used to. "I have no intention of starting trouble, but perhaps the hint of danger could be attractive to some. I'm quite proficient at drawing conversation out of those who aren't sure what to make of me at first." In other words, he'd had a lot of experience speaking with small, scared-lubeless coworkers. "I assume that persuading customers to spend money at the bar and," he refused to look at the blaring advertisement for private rooms, "elsewhere is part of the job?"

"Hosts get a quarter of every drink or fuel purchase their customers make," Jazz confirmed easily, and Tarn couldn't read that visor. The glass glittered, amusement and the notorious calm of a known lethal specialist swirled through the sharp blue light.

A quarter of every purchase? Red optics flicked over to skim the menu behind the bar, widening at the prices. A quarter of _that_?

Rust and bolts, he _needed_ this job!

Tarn tried not to swallow too loudly, and he cycled air hard before choosing his words carefully. "I can be quite persuasive when it comes to getting customers to spend money. I had the highest sales record for the call center I worked at prior to this." He dropped his vocalizer into a deeper tone, the low purr that had seduced customers into upgrading their vidsystems and commlines without even asking about the prices. "And that was only using my voice," he said, delicately layering on the suggestive overtones.

One hand reluctantly came to rest on his hip in a cocksure pose he felt exceedingly stupid assuming. He was no pin-up mech. He felt a fool. But Jazz's unreadable judgment became an assessing stare instead of dismissal he'd been expecting, so Tarn counted it a minor victory.

Until he spoke. "I've heard 'bout your voice, mech."

Well, that was ominous. Was there anything Autobot Special Operations _hadn't_ known by the end of the war? This mech knew him down to the protoform, and technically they weren't even enemies anymore. He met Jazz's gaze, but the raw vulnerability of having his defenses stripped away made him far too aware that he'd be the one to look away first.

When Swerve interrupted the unnerving staredown, Tarn almost thanked him.

As fast as he'd gained enthusiasm, the minibot had lost it. He'd been frowning at the bar counter while Tarn and Jazz spoke, but the dark thrum of the tank's voice had broken into his thoughts. He'd blinked up at the Decepticon for a long moment as the surprise faded. "That's - okay, did not see that coming." He sounded impressed. "I get why you'd fit in at a call center. Those guys can talk almost as much as me, but they always hang up on me after an hour or so. And sales experience! That's got to count for something. I get that, I really do. We could use that in here."

Jazz looked down at his boss somewhat fondly, like a teacher with a particularly exasperating pupil. "Don't make him any smaller, though."

They all knew the real issue, and Tarn gave up dancing around the issue. He lost the uncomfortable pose, too. It just didn't fit him. "My size isn't nearly the issue that my former faction is, is it?"

Swerve's visor slid to the side. "Yeeeeeeeah. It's not that I don't want the chance to get to know you - hey, great! - but the whole. Mask. Thing." His smile turned into a stiff near-grimace. "It's more in-your-face than intimate, sooooo. Don't suppose you could, y'know, take it off?"

Jazz's smile turned predatory even as Tarn shook his head. "Aw, why not?" the saboteur asked, faux-innocent.

The Decepticon leveled a blank stare at him before silently tipping his head back. A finger tapped on one of the more visible weld marks under his chin. "It doesn't come off." Even if he wanted to remove it, the Branding Law now prohibited him from taking it off. Something Jazz knew full well.

Unlike Swerve, who flinched but still stared in eager curiosity. "Didn't that **hurt**?" he blurted out. "I mean, well, I mean that. Didn't it hurt?"

The minibot's blunt reactions were refreshingly honest next to the cutting shrewdness of Jazz. Swerve didn't seem to notice the mech sitting beside him had Tarn thoroughly off-balance. Jazz lowered his head until only a sliver of his smile could be seen under the blue of his visor, and the tank watched him warily. He refused to react to the threat implied in that smile.

"Yes," he said shortly to the short mech. "It hurt."

"Oh." Swerve blinked and processed that. "I guess if you can't take it off, you can't take it off, but that's going to make things harder. When I put out the ad for hiring a Decepticon, I didn't mean someone so - wow, that sounds really bad now that I say it out loud." Tarn glared harder, and the minibot busied himself unloading the glasses off the forgotten tray. "Say! Do you want a drink? On the house!"

His empty fuel tanks whined. Tarn set his teeth. "No, thank you."

"Aw, come on. Nobody turns down a free drink." Swerve already had a glass under the nearest spigot, drawing off a hefty mug of a light pink engex that bubbled enticingly. When he set it on the bar, Tarn's tanks started spitting gauge readings up on his HUD.

The Decepticon stared at it through the vivid red warnings but didn't touch it. "Really, I'm fine." The mug had been large in the minibot's hands but would be a small drink for him. That didn't change the fact that if he drank that on empty tanks, his systems would burn through it in an embarrassing burst of too much energy. It'd hit him with only a scant amount of energon standing as a buffer between him and the rush. He'd get high in a matter of minutes and crash into statis right afterward as systems sent into overdrive gobbled up his remaining reserves long before slowing down.

Jazz was giving him that sly, knowing look again. Tarn pushed the gauge readings aside and pointedly looked at Swerve instead of the drink. Time to break out the manners arsenal, it seemed. "By the way, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Tarn." He extended the job application as he spoke, hoping to turn the conversation toward an actual job interview instead of whatever the slag this had been.

Swerve looked away from handing Jazz an elegantly tapered glass of engex right as the application entered his personal space. He took it on reflex. Triumph! "Huh? Oh. Nice to meetcha, Tarn. I'm Swerve, owner and bartender of Off Track. Here. The club." He surveyed the room proudly. "Got an agreement with Blurr, but it's my place 100%."

The visor that'd been dissecting Tarn cut to the side abruptly, away from Swerve, and Jazz set the glass aside. When he looked at Tarn again, he seemed as amused as ever. "You know who I am. Work here as lead host an' stage manager, and I rock the beats on request." His smile quirked as he tipped his helm toward the empty stage.

The Decepticon didn't give any sign that he'd noticed Jazz's momentary lapse, but he had. There was something there that wasn't being said, and he wondered what it was. Swerve's blithe confidence and Jazz's smooth smile gave no hint of what it was, however, so Tarn merely nodded. "Charmed. Now if you don't mind, I was hoping someone could tell me more about the job..?" Not _pushing_, precisely, but hinting strongly that he'd like to get on with talking about the position itself.

He didn't want the job, but he needed it. Therefore, he had to know about it despite the way his processors recoiled from absorbing further information.

"Eager, huh? That's a good sign. We need more get-up-n-go around here," Swerve said, already half a page into the application. "Business is good, but it can always be better, I say."

"Are you saying I don't hustle enough?" asked Jazz. Black fingers idly traced the rim of the glass he'd set down as he shook his head. "I gotta get some bustlin' in my hustlin'."

"I'm saying we've got too much bustle for your hustle, and we need more hustlers to handle our bustlers." Swerve's free hand snagged Jazz's glass and topped it off at the appropriate tap, pinkie finger tweaking the tab as his first two fingers held the glass under the nozzle. When it was full again, it was slid back onto the counter beside the other Autobot's hip. It impressed Tarn somewhat that the minibot did it all without looking away from reading the application. "Unless you changed you mind on my cloning idea, we've got to bring in some newbies, and I want mechs who're looking to work."

Jazz's lips quirked. "Yessir, Swerve sir. Hirin' new hosts to horn in on my game it is."

"It's not **your** game."

The abrupt change in the Autobot's demeanor sent Tarn's optics darting between them. Swerve's aura of open cheer had closed off. A belligerent look turned his visor a dark navy, and that expressive mouth turned down at the corners. He wasn't quite frowning, but he had the look of a mech poked in a tender new weld.

"Right, boss." Jazz didn't flinch or lean away, but Tarn noticed how fast the easy acceptance came.

Swerve's shoulders went back down as quick as they'd risen. That was…interesting. Tarn marked every sign of tension he could before they disappeared, because those would be important warning signs for him if he worked here. He made a mental note for himself: never challenge Swerve's ownership. The minibot seemed to enjoy some joking around, but question his right to the club and even an employee like Jazz would be snapped at. Or perhaps they were friends. He was having difficulty reading how close these two were to each other.

He'd have to keep a close optic on that.

"You've worked at a lot of places," Swerve said, and the Decepticon's interest nosedived into apprehension. "Call centers, yep, one or two of those. I see it. Lots of office positions." Swerve's tone didn't need to change. Just mentioning it aloud picked out how strange that was.

Before the war, a mech with Tarn's frametype working at an _office_ would have been almost impossible. His type was good for manual labor and nothing else, as the Functionalist Party had decreed. To some, even seeking a better-paying job that fit his vocal talents instead of frametype marked him as a troublemaker.

To Tarn's mild surprise - he'd been dreading some sort of sidelong jeering for getting 'above his station' - Swerve just nodded. "I used to be a metallurgist before I joined the Autobots. War made me want to try something else, and here I am as a bartender." He smiled up at the tank, proud but a little wistful, and Tarn didn't know how to respond. "It's not for everybody, but how do you know what you don't like it if you don't try? I always wanted to open a bar of my own, and it took me a while, but I got it. The things I had to do to get this place open were crazy, just crazy, but I had a friend, y'know? Just got to have friends in the right places."

"How many times you been fired, Tarn?" Jazz asked when it seemed Swerve would have launched into a lengthy story of his life.

Instead of being insulted, the minibot took the change in topic without missing a beat. "Does look like your 'previous employment' section goes on and on. Mine looks like that, too, but all of my entries are from - let's just say I talk a lot and call it good. Some people can't take a joke," he muttered, sub vocal, before continuing brightly. "I don't want to call all these past supervisors. It'd take all night. What's the deal, tank'Con?"

From the way he said it, Tarn thought that was supposed to be some kind of nickname, but any indignation he felt for being reduced to an altmode and faction slur vanished when Swerve peered over the application form. His treads locked down as every alarm he had blared warning. The suppression programming slammed him hard, but that only prevented him from taking step back for distance and accessing dormant weapons' systems.

For a split second, the affable talker had the look of someone who listened to everyone he talked to, and Tarn remembered exactly where he was standing: enemy territory.

Small and loudmouthed didn't meant Swerve wasn't dangerous. The best agents were the ones whose covers were air-tight. Nobody would suspect a nervous babbler to gather intel on his customers, but even the most sullen bartenders Tarn had ever met held an huge richness of information on their clientele. Bartenders were the dismissed, overlooked spies.

He should have remembered that part of Jazz's notoriety came from his ability to make connections everywhere he went. The mech could make an ally out of his own executioner, and this minibot supposedly employed him. It didn't take much speculation to see how the reins of power likely tied the other direction. It would even make sense of Swerve's hostile defense when his position as club owner got snubbed or challenged.

Had he walked into a _nest_ of Autobot SpecOps mechs?!

Then Swerve gave that broad, cheerful smile, and he was just a minibot with an inability to control his runaway mouth. Tarn wondered if he'd imagined it.

He shook the thought away, because he had a question to answer. "Ah…I have, unfortunately, lost quite a few jobs because of circumstances beyond my control. You see, my frame intimidated several of my former coworkers into filing complaints against me, and it seemed that despite my best efforts, there were irreconcilable differences between management and myself in one or two of the other positions I held."

Bullet points from job interview guides he'd gleaned from the infonet popped up on his HUD. Talking badly about former jobs implied he'd speak ill about the job he was currently applying for. Tarn changed tactics, projecting earnest reassurance through his voice as hard as he could. "I obviously cannot do much about changing my appearance, but I do my best to ensure my job performance makes up for any misunderstandings caused by first impressions. Putting my coworkers - and customers - at ease is a high priority for me. I prefer communication in the workplace to be free of unfounded fear as possible. It creates strife where there is none and hampers productivity."

That was pulled almost word-for-word from a particular self-help guide Kaon liked, so he hoped Swerve didn't read guides for successful job interviews. He also hoped the minibot didn't ask about the petty theft accusation on his public job record. He didn't have a graceful way to evade talking about it if it were brought up.

"That's good," Swerve said as he kept browsing through the application. "What kind of job skills are you bringing to this position, Tarn?"

On the one hand: wonderful, this was a question the guides had prepared him to answer. Every job interview had at least a short period where the interviewer allowed the applicant to sell himself, and Tarn was an excellent salesmech. He had a list of accomplishments and positive personality traits to tote out for display.

On the other hand: dear Primus, he had _no idea_ what were considered job skills for this position!

And Jazz was smirking at him again. Fantastic.

Hesitation never looked good during an interview. "Well, I, ah. I **am** experienced in selling different kinds of product, as you can see from my resume. Ah, selling customers drinks and…whatever else is on the menu wouldn't be much of a change from upselling customers on products during a troubleshooting call. No matter how frustrated the client, I've never had a problem turning the conversation toward some sort of underlying need they've come to me to fulfill." Was that too much? Did he had to be blunt about this, or was innuendo enough? He sincerely doubted his meaning went unnoticed, as Swerve was nodding along with his points and Jazz's visor sparkled with amusement. "And, ah, my talent for conversation was one of the reasons I was referred to this job. I'm well-versed in classic literature and current events, including politics and finances as well as the more standard popular entertainment media." He'd had a lot of time on his hands at the call centers, because gossiping with his coworkers hadn't really been an option. He'd spent his time surfing the infonet reading and watching things he normally wouldn't look at. "I can sit down and talk with anyone in a casual or more **intense** setting." Hint hint, nudge nudge.

"As for catering to customer demands here…" He tried and failed to make himself address specific job skills. Describing his ability and willingness to interface for money stuck in his throat. The words were there. He just gagged on saying them, physically unable to engage his vocalizer to spit them out.

After a couple false starts, he managed a feeble statement of, "Customer service isn't an area I fall short in."

Behind the poor concealment of his raised glass, Jazz's lips trembled as the Autobot tried to contain silent laughter.

Shame and hatred burnt in equal amounts under Tarn's spark. The fire flared even under the damping pressure of the suppression programming.

Mercifully, perhaps intentionally, Swerve seemed oblivious to the byplay as he read. "Give 'em what they want? If the price is right, if you get my drift. But that all sounds great, really good. What do you consider your biggest flaws?"

Okay, the minibot must have a pre-set series of questions. Was the giant assault tank frame and purple mask of a Decepticon not obvious enough? "I've always thought it something of a design flaw that some of my inbuilt systems draw energy even when not in use, especially upon transformation," Tarn said dryly, and Jazz doubled over snorting muffled laughter up his intake. "My fueling expenses are higher than I'd like because of that." In other words, the need to transform ached in his joints but he couldn't afford to because his fusion cannons automatically sucked power in altmode. Tanks diverted a lot of fuel to their weaponry on automatic.

Tarn wanted to transform so badly the need roiled in the back of his mind even now, but his unit barely made enough money to supply basic living expenses. Transformation was a luxury these days.

Jazz's laughter caught Swerve's audio at last, and the minibot looked at the other Autobot for a moment in confusion. When his visor widened, Tarn braced for more laughter.

"Oh, slag!" The untouched mug of engex was swept off the counter as Swerve burst into motion, expression bizarrely distraught. "I didn't mean to - look, I've got some leftover energon chips from last night, or no, wait a second and I'll whip up something in the back. Nobody's in yet but I'm not a half-bad chemist if I say so myself, so hold on and I'll make you something."

"That's not necessary! No, that's - I'm not offended. I'm fine! I didn't mean anything by what I said, I would never - " How. How on Cybertron could someone make this whole situation more embarrassing. How? It didn't seem physically possible, yet here Tarn was with his hands up as if to placate this infuriating little mech. He had to stop Swerve before he zipped into the back to offer him energon like some sort of pity case. Energon for a starving mech who made passive-aggressive statements in an attempt to get a handout during a fragging _job interview_, as if getting offered a free drink weren't enough. "I'm fine, I don't need anything, please just - don't. I apologize if it seemed like I was trying to ask for - "

"Seriously, it's okay! Hospitality, right? Right, it's fine, I know not everybody can afford decent energon. It kind of explains why your plating is so dull, now that I think about it, but - "

"My paint's matte!" Well, no, but he'd gone for a dull finish instead of a good waxing because he hadn't known he'd be selling his body for this job. Also because he _was_ underfueled, and it'd show up as ugly swatches where the wax absorbed into his plating instead of shining the surface.

Which Swerve immediately picked up on, and Tarn's shoulders hunched the barest amount when the minibot wagged a finger at him. "No it's not. I'm a metallurgist, remember? I know the difference between a painted surface and color nanites, and those are underfueled nanites. Sit down, and I'll find something for a snack!"

The chiding gesture turned into a finger pointing at a barstool, and Tarn winced a second time. He'd offended the glitch, but he'd offend him more if he refused the free fuel at this point. That…wasn't something he could afford to do. Pride felt like broken glass going down as he swallowed it. He took the seat, as ordered. Jazz all but vibrated on the bar, laughing soundlessly.

Tarn folded his hands together on the bartop tight enough to make the joints creak, but he coughed softly to loosen his vocalizer enough for a quiet, "Thank you." To spite the saboteur, if nothing else. He could be gracious. He didn't want the so-called 'generosity' being forced on him, but he would fragging well be polite about accepting it, since he didn't have much choice about the matter.

Swerve started toward the back but whirled around partway there. "Don't sneak away while my back's turned. You still want the job?"

He didn't want the job. He didn't want to be a charity case, given energon and a position out of a smarmy sense of pity. Smelt the Autobots and the Senate and the neutrals who thought tossing a few shanix their way would keep the beaten-down mechs in the lowest classes from realizing the system could have been changed.

Could have been. Hadn't been, however.

"Yes," said the Decepticon, because defeat had taken away any other option. "I want the job." Needed it, as urgent and bitter as his unit needed the low-grade energon they survived on.

"Okay, then. You're hired. Trial period, anyway. We'll, er, talk about it more in a little while." One side of Swerve's visor dimmed, and Tarn couldn't look at him. What had they been doing all this while if not talking? "Jazz! Can you fill tank'Con in on job requirements?" The other Autobot threw him a lazy salute, but Swerve hesitated a minute more before nodding decisively. "I'll be back in no time."

The minibot disappeared through a door on the far end of the bar counter. Blessed silence finally descended.

Silence and Jazz. Tarn wasn't normally a religious mech, but he briefly considered praying for Primus to spare him this conversation. Jazz didn't even have to say anything to turn the relief of silence into a crushing, awkward weight. And to think the tank been convinced working under the former Autobot officer would be the worst humiliation possible. The job interview alone had turned into a test of his temper and suppression programs, and the idea of enduring this while also 'working' packed sour, prickly rage around his spark.

At least he'd gotten the job. Tarn stared fixedly at his hands and stuffed acidic resentment into his empty fuel tanks to stew. He'd gotten the blasted job.

Somewhere outside, someone honked and shouted. It sounded like traffic was picking up as the work cycle wound down.

The sleek frame posed at the edge of his vision uncrossed and recrossed long legs, sighing to break the tense silence at last. "Tank'Con," Jazz said as if tasting the nickname. "That's…something new, mmhmm. Never thought I'd live t' see the day someone like **you** didn't tear someone like him a new one for disrespectin' you." The emphasis could have meant Decepticon, officer, or leader of the Justice Division. Maybe even just a large frametype, because what mech Tarn's size put up with a stupid nickname from a _minibot_?

A strangled, angry rev popped past the suppression programming. Seething anger had his engine trying to turn over despite layers of lockdown, but Tarn laced his fingers together and kept his optics down.

Jazz sighed again, a short puffing exhale more exasperation than drama this time. "Don't let it get to you. He calls everyone by these things he just…pulls outta thin air." One hand waved as the Autobot shook his head. "I'll bring it up to him later - **again** - but just go on and remind him you got a name. He's used to it. It doesn't stop him, but what the slag. He's the boss. Let him do his silly names; they make the customers laugh. And I'll send you and your whole unit straight to th' Pit if you try anything, Tarn."

The sudden, clear threat pierced Tarn's mounting anger in a cold shock made twice as chilling for how Jazz's friendly tone never changed. His head jerked up, red optics rounded in surprise as they met the level blue gaze of an Autobot far more dangerous in this post-war world than any Decepticon could hope to be.

"We clear?" Jazz asked, smiling. Smiling as if he couldn't expose the Decepticon Justice Division to the Senate's new justice, or the old vengeance of Autobots and Decepticons.

Air cycled in and out, shallow and slow. His fans had stalled. Tarn breathed quieter than the wind stirring, and his optics locked against that knife-edged gaze.

The sound of traffic from outside sounded incredibly loud. A tuneless humming that could only be Swerve came from the open doorway, along with some miscellaneous clinks and clanks from whatever he was doing back there.

Tarn looked away first, lowering his optics to his hands again. Jazz's visor stayed on him, coming to rest like a knife nestling under his chin, and he made himself accept it. That threat would be his choke-chain, blackmail hung around his neck for whenever the Autobot needed to twist it a little further, control him a bit more. He understood that, loud and very clear indeed.

"Yes," he said. "We're clear."

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**_[ A/N:_**_ Second part commissioned by TwistyRocks! Thank you!_

_And I feel weird putting this up, but I don't think anyone really knows how fic commissioning works yet. So I'll tell people, although I'm sure most of you won't care. This is a commissioned fic. That means it's being written when I'm paid to write it. TwistyRocks has been really nice about commissioning it (and it kind of got out of control, since a 3000 word chapter turned into this thing), but it's open to anyone.__**]**_


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